


Lost and Found

by DevilsHole



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:58:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilsHole/pseuds/DevilsHole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Kid goes missing, Heyes will do anything to find him, and the Kid will do anything - almost - to find a way back. But what happens when both men find more than they wanted?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

~*~*~

 

_Joshua:_

_In Daleyville. Spending night. Riding out October 4._

_– Thaddeus_

 

The telegram told Heyes two things: The Kid had finally taken his advice about telegram brevity to heart, and he was in trouble.

Technically, it wasn’t the telegram that told him Curry was in trouble. It was the fact that if the Kid had really ridden out of Daleyville on October 4, he’d have been in Gowman, where Heyes was, nearly a week ago. And he wasn’t. That meant either he hadn’t ridden out on schedule – trouble – or he’d ridden out and something or someone had intercepted him – trouble.

Heyes sent a telegram to Lom Trevors, who was expecting them in Jackson in two weeks, and then climbed onto the Daleyville stage with a sigh. It was always trouble, no matter which way they looked.

~*~*~

“Jones!”

Curry started, pulled out of the endless unthinking cycle of escape and revenge fantasies he fell into while working.

He hefted the pickaxe for one more stroke, feeling the hot leaden exhaustion in his back and shoulders as he brought it back, putting his anger into the heavy downward stroke, teeth gritted against the impact.

“Jones!”

He unclenched his hands from the cracked handle and straightened – carefully, for all that he was young and healthy. Turning, he caught the eye of Chet, Welles’ foreman. Or chief bootlicker. Or – Curry didn’t quite know if there was a word for Chet, though he shied away from pondering it too much. He waited, silent. He didn’t fight – in his week here, he’d measured the odds, and he planned to live long enough to escape – but he gave nothing.

“Get over here,” Chet snarled, the threat paled by the everpresent whine in his nasal voice. A small, dark, wiry man, he had the manner of a long abused mongrel suddenly given power over a weaker animal. He longed to be cruel, hungered for it, but he didn’t have the guts.

Curry dropped the pick and sauntered over. Chet waited another moment, another half-dozen oily clanks of pick-on-stone, grunts, and the echoes of grunts, in the shallow cavern.

As always, Curry gave him nothing.

Chet spat, eyes on everything but Curry, and said, “You’re done for the day.”

That was a surprise. Curry blinked and Chet caught it.

“I said you’re done. Get yourself a bath and get back to the bunkhouse.”

The word bath did it. Curry blinked again, blurted, “Bath?” as if he’d never heard the word. Sure as hell no one had offered the slightest hint of it, or any other luxury, in the week he’d been here.

“You deaf or stupid?” Chet sounded like he’d been waiting his whole life to say it.

“Just surprised. Where am I supposed t’get that bath?”

“Creek.” Chet jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “An’ don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

Curry didn’t bother responding to that. He knew where the guards were – and having seen a man shot to death on his second day, he knew what would happen if he tried to escape and failed. Curry planned to try, sure as hell, but he didn’t intend to fail.

 “What if I don’t feel like takin’ a bath?” He longed for one after a week of hard, dirty labor, but the offer was a little too good to be accepted without suspicion.

Chet looked down at his bare chest – the mine work and weather meant none of the men wore more than boots, jeans and heavy gloves – and Curry bit back the urge to belt him one.

“I didn’t hear anyone askin’ you what you want.” Chet smirked, turning his back, dismissing Curry with, “Soap and towels in the bunkhouse.”

Curry watched Chet make his way to the rough oval of light that was the entrance to the mine, then glanced back at the other men. Several faces whipped back around to their work, and Curry shook his head, climbing to the light. Whatever the reason – and he had no doubt it wasn’t a good one – he had no objection to a bath.

As he did every day, he took note of the guards’ positions and movements while collecting a lump of soap and a coarse but clean towel from the bunkhouse. By now he had the patterns down and had moved on to trying to figure a way around them.

One of the men in the bunkhouse gave him a long look before telling him the way to the creek. It was close, no more than a quarter mile down the valley along a footpath lined with trees and brush.

Curry found a little freshet spilling across boulders into a pond. Surrounded by trees, the spot was private and pleasant, perfect for bathing.

He glanced at the hills, allowing himself a grim mental smile at the flash of sunlight on a gun barrel up in the brush above the falls. Of course he was being watched. Although he’d expected it, he felt anger slither tight up his spine at the idea that one of Welles’ bastard bootlickers was watching him bathe. He didn’t intend to let it stop him getting clean, but it went on the list of things he planned to take out of someone’s hide once he got the chance.

He stripped and plunged into the water, delighting in the feel of it, the break from this weird nightmare he’d fallen into after his horse took a fatal tumble on the road from Daleyville eight days ago.

He tried not to think about Heyes – he didn’t know why – but his partner was at the back of his mind every waking minute, a constant presence, almost visible. It was like he couldn’t let himself be distracted from planning his escape by any hope of rescue. Not that Heyes wouldn’t – Curry knew that, like breathing – but he had no reason to believe Heyes even knew where he was.

But the stranger thing, he thought as he scrubbed himself roughly with cold water and cheap soap, was that he dreamed about Heyes. Every night. Maybe it wouldn’t have been strange – Heyes and hope, Heyes and freedom, were connected in his mind – but it was the way the dreams went that …

... that woke him, startled and gasping in the darkness of the bunkhouse. Strange dreams, dreams that melded with the soft urgent noises he sometimes heard from the farthest corners of the bunkhouse, dreams where Heyes became, not the trusted friend Curry had known or years, but a stranger, mysterious, looming over Curry, scaring him and … and …  he didn’t know what.

No. That wasn’t true. He knew. But he didn’t want to think about it.

He climbed out of the water, back to his invisible watcher, and sat on the grassy bank, letting the sun dry him a little, taking this semi-private moment to think about what the hell he was in, and how to get the hell out of it.

Welles had a little empire here, that much was clear. He pressganged men to work his tiny but fertile diamond mine, and with the money the gems brought, he paid the guards who kept them working. That much was simple and understandable, if lowdown and ruthless.

But this place was strange. All the men here. Their manner, their behavior. The atmosphere. The looks. Those noises in the bunkhouse darkness. It made the back of Curry’s neck tingle. He knew what it was, knew it with his skin and his gut though he’d seen no blatant signs of it, but he forced his brain away from it every time he started to pull it forward and think about it. It wasn’t – it was nothing to do with him, and he wanted to keep it that way.

He pulled on his pants – dirty, but no other clothing had been offered – collected his boots, and climbed barefoot back up the path. He considered a wave to his silent watcher, but decided it was better if he showed as little awareness as possible of the guards.

Chet was waiting in front of the bunkhouse, anger twisting his smooth face. “Mr. Welles wants to see you.”

“Can I put a shirt on?” Curry asked.

Chet gave him that same sneering once-over that made Curry ache to slug him, then just started away from the bunkhouse. Curry shrugged and followed him, past the stables and corrals to the lane that led over a broad grassy yard to the main house.

This was as close as Curry’d been to the place since he’d woken up in the bunkhouse eight days ago with a bruised body, a killer headache, and nothing else but the growing realization he was in deep trouble. Welles and a couple of his gunmen had stopped by to explain the situation to him, meeting his protests with leveled rifles rather than words.

~*~*~

The house was stone on the ground floor, wood above, long and low and rambling but showing obvious signs of money, like the big glass windows and the carved, polished wood of the railing and broad front door.

Chet led him into the house past two big men with rifles, leaning their hardwood chairs back on two legs, on either side of the front door.

Inside, in the cool, wide entry hall, Chet said, “Wait,” and walked deeper into the house.

Curry hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and waited, curling his bare toes against the smooth tile of the floor.

There was money here, for sure, and something that didn’t fit nibbled at his brain for a moment before speaking up – what was a man with this kind of money doing living out here in the middle of nowhere, when he could be enjoying the pleasures of civilization  –  wine, women, good food, expensive clothes, a real fine house? No mine owner with two C notes to rub together would live near his mine, in the dirt and dust and grit.

Unless he had something big to hide.

Chet came up front again and waved, and the Kid thumped across the glossy slick floor into the back of the house. Chet stood at a pair of double doors, dark shining oak, one open.

“G’wan in,” he said, following Curry and shutting the door behind them. He stopped just inside, resting one hand conspicuously on his sixgun. Curry spared him little more than a glance.

The room was a long, narrow study, lined with bookcases, a fireplace, and – Curry assumed – windows, covered with deep red curtains. Welles sat on the edge of his desk, in his shirtsleeves, the jacket of his expensive grey suit slung over a leather chair to one side. He was a big man, not taller than Curry but broad and hard with muscle under a layer of fat understandable in a rich man of about 50.

Curry stopped a few steps into the room and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, slouching a bit. He wasn’t the bluffer Heyes was – Heyes always said he was too honest, which struck the Kid as a bit silly considering their past – but he was determined not to reveal how uncomfortable and angry he was about standing here at all, let alone half-dressed.

Welles looked him down and up, a slow flicker of dark eyes under brows as bushy and black-grey as his hair, and the anger and discomfort knotted tighter in Curry’s stomach.

“Jones.”

Curry hesitated, but it was clear Welles wasn’t the sort of man you could outwait. Finally, he said:

“You wanted something? Or you finally planning to let me go back where I belong?”

Welles smiled.

“Let’s say I want something. Something I think you might want too.” He paused. “What’s your given name?”

“Does it matter?”

Welles shrugged. “I prefer politeness, Mr Jones. And I’d like us to be friends.”

“Let me leave, and I’ll consider us becoming friends,” Curry said.

Welles smiled. “Well, I can’t do that just at this time, Mr Jones. Maybe later. When I’m sure you can be trusted.”

“Trusted with what?”

“That’s what you’re here for.” Welles rose, went to a bar set up in a polished wood cabinet against one wall. “Whisky?”

Curry shook his head. “No thanks.”

Welles glanced at him, shrugged, and poured himself two fingers of liquor. Curry sighed softly; he might not be the brain Heyes was, but he recognized this kind of game and had no intention of giving Welles the satisfaction of impatience.

Welles sipped, swallowed, and finally turned to face him again. He again looked the Kid up and down, this time as one looks at a horse one has already bought.

“You’re a healthy, good looking young man. There’s no need for you to waste your life in my mine when you could have a much more … enjoyable position here.”

Chet laughed, a girlish, ugly sound. Curry didn’t spare him a glance – he was well aware who the real danger was here.

“What is it you want from me, Mr Welles? Why the hell don’t you just shoot me? Or let me go?”

“I don’t want you dead, Mr. Jones. Oh, no. I don’t want that at all. I want you alive and kicking, just the way you are.” He smiled and Curry’s gut cringed again. This was a danger he had no experience in fighting.

He bit down on his automatic outburst, outrage. Instinctively thinking of Heyes, he knew he had to play this cooler if he wanted to stay safe long enough to get away.

Welles smiled. “You’re angry. You aren’t used to being powerless, and it makes you mad. I like that. I like your guts, Curry. And you’re reining it in. That tells me you’ve got some sense, too. Pretty faces – and bodies – are a dime a dozen. Although yours are very pretty indeed.” He got up, yanked a velvet-tasseled bell-pull. “It’s lunch time. Why don’t you join me.” It wasn’t a request. “Mining’s hard work. I know. I used to be at that end of it, a long time ago.”

When the butler opened the door Welles said, “Mr Jones and I will be having lunch in here.”

“Just the two of you, sir?” the butler confirmed; it was the sort of thing butlers did, the Kid knew, but he still felt like he heard an inflection there he didn’t like.

Welles nodded; the butler bowed and departed.

“He’s dangerous, Mr. Welles,” Chet hissed.

“Unarmed and half naked?” Welles purred sarcastically, then looked measuringly at Curry as Chet flushed. “Well, maybe you’re right. Why don’t you get Bill and Carlos in here?”

Red-faced, Chet bounced a little in resentment, then snarled, “Yes sir” and stomped out the door.

Welles sipped his whisky. “I get the feeling Chet doesn’t like you very much.”

“Well now, that makes me real sad, Mr Welles. Maybe I should leave before I cause a problem.”

Welles gazed at him, measuring – nothing sexual in his gaze, now, but it was just as dangerous.

“Hm. You might cause problems, true, but I have a feeling you’re worth any problems you might cause. In any case I think I might be able to persuade you to stay willingly.”

Alarmed, Curry forced his voice to flat disinterest. “Doubt it.”

The door opened and Chet returned, followed by two gunmen who towered over him. They stopped on either side of the door – guards – and the Kid felt his already poor odds get a little worse. He breathed deep, prepared to take this slow and wait for his chance.

Chet stopped in the middle of the room and gave the Kid a glare that he ignored. All things considered, Chet hating him was the least of his concerns.

Welles moved to a curtained alcove behind his broad mahogany desk – for the first time Curry noticed there was a comfortably padded sofa facing the wall,  a few feet from the curtain. He couldn’t imagine what view in rough rocky country like this would be worth setting up a sofa for like that.

“All right, Chet.” Welles placed one broad hand on the back of the sofa and turned to smile at the Kid. “Go on down. Mr Jones and I will have lunch, and a little chat.”

Fighting to keep the fury from his tone, Curry said, “I don’t think we got anything else to talk about.”

Still looking at Curry, Welles said, “You go on down, Chet. Karl’s waiting for you.”

Chet seemed to swell toward Welles in protest. “Mr We—”

“I _said_ ,” Welles snapped, “Karl is waiting for you.” He cut Chet a glance. “These boys –” with a nod to the silent guards – “will protect me. You don’t want to keep Karl waiting. I’d be disappointed if you did that.”

Puzzled, Curry watched Chet roll his sweat-stained hat around in his hands for a moment, crushing the brim, before he abruptly flung himself toward the doors, slamming through them and slamming them behind himself.

Welles tsked, then held out a hand toward Curry.

“Come. Sit here. I won’t touch you. I want you to see something.”

Curry hesitated, then – realizing that with two gunmen at his beck and call, Welles could force him, to sit or to do anything he wanted – crossed the study and sat on the velvet-cushioned couch.

Welles pulled a braided golden rope and a set of curtains swung silently closed behind them, cutting them off from the study. As the Kid blinked into the dimness, Welles said, “Let me show you something about my … world, Thaddeus.”

Another set of curtains – in front of them – opened and he was looking through a window into a bedroom decorated in dark woods and red velvets. Two men faced each other. One of them was Chet; the other one of Welles’ gunmen, named Karl if Curry remembered right, fair-haired and a little taller than Chet. They stood talking softly – at least, so the Kid assumed, since he couldn’t hear them.

Both men glanced upward – toward the window, but kind of blindly, the Kid thought, even as Welles said:

“It’s one way glass. They can’t see us. I like my privacy.”

Both men began to undress, unbuttoning shirts and toeing off boots with dispatch.

Shocked on some level without being really startled, the Kid muttered, “What about theirs?” _This can’t be happening._

Welles didn’t answer. Chet and Karl were soon naked, two wiry men with sunbrowned heads and arms and pale, lightly haired bodies. They faced one another again. Their mouths moved, words, then grins; then they reached for one another, moving into a kiss, sloppy, open-mouthed, clumsily erotic.

Flushing with anger and mortification, the Kid stared at his hands, fisted on his knees, longing to slug Welles, to clench around his neck and squeeze …

Welles glanced at him. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to look.” Curry flushed anew, fury-hot, at the smirk in the man’s tone.

“A grown man like you,” Welles went on. “I’m surprised.”

Kid fought down his anger, shrugged, knowing his discomfort was obvious. “It ain’t exactly news to me. But that don’t mean I want to see it.”

Welles leaned back in his chair, watching the men below with narrow eyes. “I want you to see it. I need you to see it, so I can decide what to do about you.”

Curry could move, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t look away from the two men even though his brain was trying to crawl out of his skull to avoid knowing what he was seeing. The blond man, Karl, bent Chet over the couch, sliding a hand between his ass cheeks and rubbing, stroking his nuts and his dick, and when Chet arched his back Curry could see he was hard, liking it.

“They love it,” Welles said behind him. “And it’s safe, here. This is my world. My kingdom. I run it my way, and if you cooperate … you can have whatever you want.”

Curry shook his head. Welles chuckled. Karl draped himself against Chet’s back, moving against him, biting and sucking at Chet’s neck as his hips ground into Chet’s ass.

When he felt like he’d ironed most of the fury out of his voice, Curry said, “Mr. Welles, I got no interest in that. None whatsoever.”

He stood, and Welles made no move to stop him, eyeing him up and down with a knowing smirk the Kid burned to punch right off his face.

“Stop lying to yourself. You want it. I can tell. And a man like you … a beautiful young man like you should have what he wants. I can give it to you.”

The Kid shook his head and circled the couch, slapping the curtains out of his way and striding for the doors. One way or the other, he was getting out of here.

He didn’t hesitate when he saw the guards lay their hands on their sixguns. Welles, behind him, called out:

“Let him go.”

The gunmen froze; Curry charged past them and through the study doors. He stopped there a second, orienting himself, and Welles came up behind him, infuriatingly complacent.

“Go ahead. Go on back to the bunkhouse.”

Curry glared at him briefly, but the threat – to kill, to flee – was empty, at least at this moment, and Welles knew it.

He smiled, gesturing toward the front door. “Go ahead. You’ll come around, sooner or later. I can wait. I’ll be willing to bet you’re worth it.”

Curry spun and stormed out of the house – no one tried to stop him, but Welles’ deep-chested laughter pursued him out the door.

~*~*~

Heyes’ first stop in Daleyville was the telegraph office.

“He was riding toward Gowman,” Heyes said to the old fellow at the desk. “’Bout two weeks ago now. I know he got as far as here, cuz he sent me a telegram.” He waved the much-folded piece of paper at the clerk before tucking it away again.

The clerk shook his head. “We get a lotta people through here, mister. I can’t say he was or wasn’t one of ’em. Sorry.”

Heyes thanked him and moved on. The saloon – useless, no one remembered anyone in a saloon unless they made trouble, and if the Kid had made trouble (not impossible) Heyes would already know about it; the hotel – a silver dollar slipped to the clerk revealed a T. Jones in the register for one night more than a week ago; the stables – the owner said a lot of people came and went, and another silver dollar didn’t sharpen his memory any.

Heyes thanked him too, then stood at the stable doors, surveying the small town and trying to figure where to check next.

“Senor.”

He turned at the soft word to see a tall, slim young Mexican man by the stables’  hitching rail. He tilted his head to indicate Heyes should come closer. He wasn’t wearing a gun; Heyes sauntered over.

“I think I can help you.”

“Yeah?”

“Your friend. With the blond curly hair and blue eyes. I met him. His horse went lame and he came here to trade for another one.”

“That – thanks. But that doesn’t explain why he set out but didn’t arrive.”

The young man looked around, a quick glance left, then right. “The road through the mountains is rough. He might have had an accident.”

Clearly the man knew something. “But there’s a stage through there every week. If something had happened, the last stage would’ve passed right by. They would have seen –” He wouldn’t say _a body_ , wouldn’t let himself think it – “something.”

The young man nodded. “That’s why I think something else happened to your friend, maybe.”

“Like what?” Heyes asked, suspicious.

The young man shifted, beckoning Heyes with a nod, and Heyes followed him to the saloon, to a table in a corner where there was less chance of their being overheard. They sat down and Heyes waved the waitress over to order a couple of beers.

Once she was gone the young Mexican said, “There is a man. His name is Welles. He lives in a canyon a few miles from the road. Not far, but very hidden. Hard to find if you don’t know where to look. He’s very wealthy. He has a diamond mine – only one, not big, but enough for him. He brings men in to work it.” He looked hard at Heyes, his eyes narrowed, pained. “He doesn’t ask them if they want to. That isn’t the only thing he doesn’t ask.”

Heyes nodded, thinking hard. He asked, absently, “What’s your name?”

“Luis.”

“I’m Joshua.” It sometimes seemed like if something bad _could_ happen to them, it happened. The Kid accidentally falling into the clutches of some strange bushwhacking diamond baron didn’t seem so strange in comparison to some of the messes they’d faced.

The waitress came with their beers, and Heyes waited ‘til she was gone to continue.

“How do you know about this place?”

Luis shrugged. “I know it. I know it and I don’t want to go back. But you can – maybe – find your friend there. If he’s not there …” He shrugged again, drained his glass. “He’s probably dead.”

“Can you show me?” Heyes said, cutting to essentials.

Luis shook his head, firm. “I thank God I got away. I’ll never go back there.”

Heyes toyed with his full beer glass. “I’m not asking you to go back. Just show me how to get there.”

“You won’t—”

Heyes overrode him.

“Please just show me the way. Once I’m pointed in the right direction, you can ride off. I’ll pay you—” He did a quick calculation. “I’ll pay you twenty dollars.”

Luis looked at him, scowl easing. “How much money do you have, senor?”

Heyes shrugged. “Twenty dollars. If you need more, I’ll get it, but I don’t have it right now. I—”

Luis raised a hand. “Never mind.” He lifted his empty glass, put it down again. Heyes slid his own untouched glass across the table and Luis took it. Stared into it. Said, “I’ll show you.”

Heyes smiled and the young man looked almost embarrassed.

“I won’t go there,” he added, hasty. “But I’ll show you how to get there.”

Heyes started digging into his pockets, but Luis set his fingers against Heyes’ hand for an instant.

“No. You don’t need to give me money.”

Heyes stopped, offered a questioning look.

“I hate Welles,” Luis said. “And you … you seem like a good man. I’m happy to help. As much as I can,” he added, a reminder that he wouldn’t get too close.

Heyes nodded, pulling his hand out of his pocket. “Thank you.”

The more fear this young Mexican showed, the more anxious he was to get to the Kid and get him the hell out of there.

~*~*~

They rode up into the mountains for three days, stopping near a ridge that led up to a long notch which, Luis said, was the easiest back way into Welles’ valley. Heyes paused at dusk on the ridge to gaze down into the long, wooded valley spread below him. It was spectacular.

“Beautiful country,” he observed. Luis’ face didn’t change.

“Welles has made it ugly.”

Heyes looked at him, reading his expression, remembering. “You said he makes men work his mine. You also said that’s not the only thing he makes them do.”

Luis’ face tightened, shut off for a moment. Then he breathed in, a visible effort. “No. Welles is a man who – who loves men.” He glanced at Heyes, perhaps expecting confusion or shock.

Though surprised – very surprised – Heyes understood what Luis was saying, and his expression no doubt said so.

Then Luis chuckled sourly. “I say loves. Welles loves no one. Only himself, his diamonds, his power. But he … he gathers men, willing and unwilling. And he uses them as he wishes to.” Another glance at Heyes, who had already absorbed the facts of it, swallowed down the astonishment and concern, and had moved on to the key issue: how to get the Kid out of there as quickly as possible.

“The men are not all unwilling,” Luis said. “You should understand. Some are happy there. But if they were not happy, if they were not willing – Welles would not care. He would keep them, and use them, all the same.” Luis looked at his saddle horn and his face tightened again. “I was not willing.”

Heyes looked at him and had nothing to say.

~*~*~

Curry sat staring across the valley, unable to get the image of Karl and Chet out of his head. Every time he pictured the smirk on Welles’ face his entire body tightened in murderous rage, but even that couldn’t drive out the thoughts – the ideas – ideas he swore he’d never had before, never _could_ have had before.

Why? Why did the sight of those two men, two naked sweating bodies – two men, something he’d never seen or wanted to see – the dark and light together, twined like snakes against one another, panting … it should have been ugly, but it wasn’t … it was hypnotic, the fair against the dark, blond against brunet …

Christ, he was getting hard just picturing it. What it must be like, all hard muscle and heavy bone and male scent, lovers – whatever he thought about Welles, those two men were everything willing – lovers matched in size and strength and hunger…

Curry shook his head, trying to shake away the image, the desire. It was wrong, why was he thinking this way, he’d _never_ wanted a man like that, never wanted to … to touch a man, to hold a man, to …

Heyes’ image rose in his mind, contradicting him. He’d held his partner, touched his partner, had no problem with it. He loved Heyes –he’d take a bullet before saying it, just like he’d take a bullet before letting Heyes get hurt in any way – but he loved him, trusted him, leaned on him. If it were Heyes – if it were him and Heyes … could he do it?  Could he touch him like that? 

He plunged to his feet, cursing. _No_. What the hell was he thinking? What had Welles done to him, showing him that? He was out of his mind. That was it. Something in the food. The water. The air of the mine. Just being held here. There was no way he could think of himself and Heyes … like that. Like _that_.

He had to get out. Get out before he killed someone. Before he …

Before he started thinking it was okay to think like this, to feel this. Before he started thinking men like Welles could be right, right about anything.

One of Welles’ guards, rifle in hand, met him halfway back to the bunkhouse.

“You,” he said, as if the Kid had been trying to escape rather than heading back. “Back to work.”

Curry walked past him without a glance, taking the path down to the mine, eager for something – even aches and blisters – to take his mind off what he was thinking.

~*~*~

The night came chill and clear and they slept side by side, close to the fire with a boulder at their backs.

Heyes deliberately separated his thoughts from the Kid, from worry, knowing he wouldn’t sleep otherwise. He stared into the fire and let the licking flames and warmth hypnotize him into drowsiness, then into sleep that slithered into a vague erotic dreaming, warm bodies, golden and faceless but touching him, stroking him, drawing him gently into arousal …

He was still mostly asleep, shifting toward the warm smooth body in front of him, his hand snaking over the ribs to spread across the warm muscled chest, his nose buried in silken hair, breathing in the sweet clean scent of skin.

And the body turned toward him as his hand slid down a tight stomach to a thatch of equally silky hair and a hot, swelling erection.

That snapped him awake. And Luis faced him, seeing the shock on his face, rising above him, his skin and eyes dark honey in the dim firelight.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered, straddling Heyes. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Even then, Heyes might’ve – but Luis rubbed against him, smooth, warm, and then he rose up, wrapping his fingers around Heyes, and joined them together, gasping, back arched, and at the hot wet squeeze of him all thought drained away. Heyes grasped his hips and thrust, thrust, and Luis bent, covering Heyes’ mouth, sliding his tongue deep, across Heyes’ tongue, clumsy, breathing hot down Heyes’ throat. His body clutched at Heyes’ cock, gripping as he moaned into Heyes’ mouth, Spanish, sounds of pleasure, though Heyes understood only _si_. He had a fleeting mental warning – this was wrong, they shouldn’t – but Luis was warm and fluid and sweet-smelling and tight around his dick and for this instant it was all just right, just right …

~*~*~

Then he slept. Then he dreamed again, a blurring parade of strangers and places and actions that produced no results, confusing and frustrating, big houses with many rooms full of clutter, strange and alien, door after door that he’d open and close, getting no closer to whatever it was he needed.

Then he entered a room and Luis stood before him, and came to him, and wrapped his arms around him, and Heyes felt his own arms rise – and he looked up to see the Kid behind them. Staring. Staring with shock and hurt in his face, grief pouring from his eyes, waves of betrayal, needling pain, and Heyes tried to pull free and go to him, but Luis wouldn’t let him go, and the Kid – the Kid was _crying_ , _oh god—_

He snapped awake with a gasp, sitting bolt upright, and Luis stirred beside him, turning over to look at him with sleepy eyes.

“What – Joshua, what is it?”

“Oh … god _damn_ …” He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to block out that image of the Kid watching. Watching with that expression of betrayal that tore into Heyes’ gut.

“I had a dream.”

“A bad dream,” Luis divined.

Heyes took in a shaky breath. “The Kid – my friend. He was here. He was … he was –” _He was hurt, crying, and oh God, it was my fault and it broke my heart._ “He was … lookin’ at me. He was …” Heyes swallowed roughly. “… upset.”

Luis smiled. “You feel guilty.”

Heyes looked at the young Mexican, surprised.

“Yeah.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why. We – me and the – me and my friend … don’t … we ain’t never ...” He couldn’t even think about ... that and the Kid in the same mental sentence without his heart racing and his mouth going dry in pure terror.  He shook his head again, shaking away the fear. “I don’t know why. Maybe because I feel like I was … messing around when I should have been lookin’ for him…”

“You _are_ looking for him. You have to rest some time.” Luis shook his head, this time, slowly, thoughtful, and Heyes looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Another shake. “Nothing.”

Heyes willingly let it go, peering around, eyes adjusting to the dark, to the faint hint of red along the eastern mountaintops.

“It’s almost sunup.” With that half-lie he scrambled out of his bedroll and to his feet, as if fleeing it and the things that had happened in and around it that night.

~*~*~

Heyes tipped his hat off his head and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he peered across the hazy mountaintops.

He couldn’t get what Luis had told him out of his mind (he was trying not to think about what they’d done, but that was there as well, a low-voiced constant warning of … something). When Luis pulled his horse up next to him, leading the third mount they’d brought for the Kid, Heyes glanced that way.

“Do you think … d’you think this Welles character will … will want the – my friend – to ..?” It seemed incredible – impossible to put those words together. “Do you think he’ll try to make him ..?”

Luis looked at him, as though puzzled. “I met your friend. He is a very handsome man.”

Heyes watched his own hands, open as if in search of the right words to grasp, close into fists over the reins. “Yeah,” he said. “He is.”

Luis shrugged. “Welles will want him. Welles gets what he wants.”

Heyes shook his own head, determined. “Not this time.”

Luis’ expression seemed not to change, maybe only the shift of an eyebrow, the cant of his mouth, but his skepticism was clear.

 “The – my friend won’t have anything to do with that.”

Luis spoke Heyes’ fear. “Welles will not give him a choice.”

Heyes tried to breathe, his mind racing, flashing on every scenario he could think of, seeking an escape, an out for the Kid in a situation like this. For himself, it would be easier; he could keep his cool, think past shock or horror or anger. But the Kid …

Scowling, Luis said, “What is it?”

Heyes shook his head. “He’s got a temper. He … sometimes he don’t stop an’ think. If this Welles makes him mad enough …” He pictured it, Welles coming on to the Kid in this way – the shock, the horror and rage flaring up inside the Kid …

Luis smiled oddly. “If your friend has something – someone – to live for ..? Perhaps he will be more careful if he believes you are searching for him?”

Heyes looked at him. For a long time. “Maybe. I hope so. This is just the kinda situation he’s likely to get himself killed in, the dumb shit.”

Luis smiled his small, sad smile. “It will not be easy for you to get past Welles’ men. They don’t expect anyone to sneak in – that is in your favor – but there are many of them.”

Heyes shook that off. It didn’t matter. None of that mattered. “Let’s go.”

~*~*~

They rode up, up and up, through an increasingly narrow and rough canyon, until they could get the horses no farther. There they dismounted and set up a rough camp. “It is just up there – the little ravine I used to escape. It leads up to a ridge overlooking the creek.”

Heyes took an extra sixgun, shoved into his belt. Odds were they’d need all the firepower they could get, and he could be fairly sure the Kid was presently unarmed. He followed Luis up a winding, rocky path pinched between the brushy hillsides, until they reached a spot where a small landslide had partially blocked the way.

Luis looked at him. “Just past here; you will be able to see down to the creek and the ranch house. Now I am going home.”

Heyes said nothing – he was too busy calculating methods and escape routes – but, as if he were arguing, Luis shook his head. “I’m not stupid. You are a beautiful man, and I have enjoyed this time. I’m glad if I’ve helped you find your friend. But I am never going near Welles again as long as I live.”

Heyes nodded. He understood, and didn’t really have the energy or focus to argue, to think about anything but the fact that the Kid was down there, somewhere, close enough to see, to rescue.

“I understand,” he said and stuck out his hand. “I …” What could he say? “Thank you, Luis.”

Luis looked at his hand and shook his head, then took it.

“Good luck, Joshua, in finding your friend. And keeping him.”

Heyes watched him go back to where they’d tied the horses, then scrambled over the slide and crept to the summit. Below, he could see the end of the wooded valley they’d seen earlier; just under where he crouched a waterfall fell into a creek that meandered through the valley. From this high vantage he could see the ranch, the hillside where the mine entrance was, the pool just below, and – he hoped – a way to make it down there without getting spotted.

Luis’ information about the guards would be useful if he could be sure it wasn’t out of date; after all, it had been six months since he’d escaped. Ideally Heyes would’ve taken a day or two to properly reconnoiter, but he was anxious, too worried about what might happen to the Kid. _What might already have happened._

He decided to creep down next to the falls, staying under cover of the brush and trees until he could get close enough to figure out where the guards were. Then he spotted someone at the pool below – and in a dizzying rush of relief, recognized him.

~*~*~

Kid Curry kept one eye roving as he waded into the icy water; he welcomed the chance of a bath for its own sake – mining was dirty work, and something about this place ( _You know damn’ well what, and it ain’t somethin’ you can wash off_ ) made it feel dirtier than usual – but mostly he wanted to check the perimeter guard patterns again, see if there was some error, some carelessness, some hole he could slip through to get the hell out of this place.

Since his little peep show a few days ago, Welles had left him alone, left him to his duties in the mine, and the Kid knew why – he was waiting for the backbreaking work to make his offer seem more tempting.

The Kid washed up and dried off as fast as he could, shivering as he yanked on his smalls and pants. Dirty or not, that creek was too cold to linger in. Nor did he want to offer his own peep show to any of the guards. He sat on a rock and pulled on his socks and boots, then used the lone towel he’d been issued to rub at his hair, glancing up the cliff face from underneath the towel.

Damn it. The guard was still there, seated cross-legged under a bush with his rifle in his lap. Why couldn’t just one of them doze off, or slip away for a drink somewhere … anything to give him just five clear minutes to lose himself in the hills. He’d gladly risk dying out there, of thirst or hunger or snakebite. Anything to get him moving away from here and back where he belonged.

With Heyes.

Heyes had to be out there looking for him; there was no doubt. But where? How far away? It’d been weeks … but Heyes wouldn’t give up. He wouldn’t give up any more than Curry would. That fact was a lifeline and Curry hung onto it every day in this place, looking for the chance to pull himself free. Back to Heyes.

Heyes …

Curry looked at the towel in his hands, twisted like he was trying to kill it. He had a lot of thinking to do to get his head straight again, thanks to Welles.

~*~*~

Heyes stared at Curry as if he’d never seen him before – as he hadn’t, not in this light, this terrible forbidden light.

_God_. He knew the Kid was good-looking, of course, he wasn’t blind. But he’d known it in his head, not in his gut, not in his muscles and all over his skin like warm rain.

Anger flooded him then, outrage at whatever it was that had forced this awareness on him, unwelcome, dangerous.

Luis. But it wasn’t Luis’ fault – it was the whole situation that’d forced him to think about this, _see_ this, see the world – see the Kid –  through a lens he hadn’t permitted himself since he was a boy. Since he’d learned what happened to boys who looked at the world – at other boys – this way.

A rustle in the bushes below made him duck before he’d even really registered it; he scanned the slope and saw, a little below and to the left, a rifleman. Well, a guard. His rifle was slung and he sat cross-legged, elbows on his knees, watching the Kid. Smiling.

Watching him and smiling. The story Luis had told him came back, like a body blow, and Heyes felt anger roil up in his gut. He slid his sixgun back into the holster and rose into a crouch, moving with almost unthinking focus and silence through the brush until he was behind, and a little above, the guard. Tempted though he was to shoot, he didn’t need that kind of noise right now. Fortunately a convenient rock provided the weapon and the back of the man’s head the target – the guard hit the dirt on his stomach with a soft thud, and Heyes unloaded his rifle and threw it into the bushes before working his way carefully down the steep slope toward the pool.

~*~*~

Heyes slipped out of the bushes, gun swiftly holstered, one finger already at his lips as Curry spun, crouched, hand snapping toward his absent gun—

—then recognized him. Straightened up, eyes wide.

“Oh, god–” And Curry – astoundingly – flung himself at Heyes, catching him in a heartfelt, bonecrushing bear hug.

“God. Heyes. I never been so glad to see anybody –”

Then Heyes felt him stop, stiffen, and pull back, almost before Heyes himself had gotten over the shock of the hug.

“How’d you get here?” Curry hissed, turning to look over his shoulder toward the rock overhang.

“Past him,” Heyes said, not letting go of the Kid’s shoulders. “He won’t be spyin’ on folks for a while.”

Curry swung back to face him, and at his expression – so many emotions, things Heyes had never seen there before, barriers he’d never seen – Heyes let go of him, stepped back. “You okay?” _Oh, god, Kid, what’s happened?_

“We gotta get outta here,” the Kid said.

Heyes nodded. “I got horses up there, back the way I came, but we got some climbing to do.” He handed the Kid the spare sixgun. “Are you okay?”

Not looking at him, Curry slid it behind his belt. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

Only when his stomach dropped like a stone did Heyes realize he’d been hoping for a smile, a direct, honest look … the Kid Curry he knew.

~*~*~

They were halfway up the hillside, laboring to move quietly through the underbrush, when they heard the crack of a rifle shot behind them. A split second’s pause to look at one another – _pursuit_ – and they moved faster, uphill through tangled weeds and rocky ground, and by the time they’d crested the hill they could hear the shouts, below, indicating that Welles’ men had noticed what had happened.

Keeping low, they worked along the ridge to a spot where they could look back unobserved into the valley. Men and horses were already moving along the main road through Welles’ property, headed for the hill path.

“Can they get horses up here?” Heyes asked.

Curry shook his head, but said, “I don’t know. They know these hills a lot better than we do.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of them.” Heyes jumped to his feet and led the way toward the ravine and their mounts.

They climbed and scrambled and stumbled over the slide and into the narrow tunnel leading down the mountainside, not hearing any more shots or any sound that indicated they were being closely pursued.

Until they hit the bottom of the slot, where it widened, and heard the very distinct crack-crack of rifles being cocked. In front of them.

They slid to a stop at the mouth of the slot.

“I can’t let you leave, Mr Jones.”

Welles – it could be no one else, Heyes instinctively knew –  stood, framed by his men, blocking the narrow descent. Confident. By that, Heyes knew they had no idea who the Kid was. At least that meant they wouldn’t have to kill them all.

“It’s not because I can’t live without you,” Welles said. “Gorgeous as you indubitably are.”

Heyes couldn’t keep from darting a glance at the Kid; the murderous glint in the blue eyes darkened, but the Kid’s posture didn’t shift. He was primed to kill, Heyes saw. More than primed, he was starving for it.

“It’s simply that I cannot let word about my little … paradise get out. That would ruin everything, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Welles glanced at Heyes, took him in with a quick once-over. “I can see that you have other priorities which necessitate your attempt, and I’m sorry I can’t allow it. Now, you and your friend have two choices. You can come back with us, peaceably, and I’ll see if I can’t make life more pleasant, for both of you—”

Curry’s jaw bunched. Welles didn’t move. His gunmen had time to notice, and flinch – and Heyes, later, wondered if he hadn’t had time to shout, or if he hadn’t wanted to. In any case, in the space of about a second the Kid had fired twice, Welles’ two men were on the ground, and the Kid stood with his sixgun pointed at Welles’ broad chest.

Welles went white and very still as the echo of the Kid’s two shots faded. “I’m unarmed, Mr. Jones.”

Heyes waited, eyes flickering between them, one radiating fear, the other a fury so hot he wondered what exactly had happened to the Kid during the past 11 days.

“Why would you want to kill me?” Welles said, softly, and Heyes revised his opinion. The man was afraid, yes, but still cunning, still calculating, still able to exploit his enemy’s weakness. “Is it to get away? Or is it because I showed you something about yourself you didn’t want to see?”

“Shut up,” the Kid snarled, and Heyes flinched inwardly at the hatred and fury in his voice. If Welles knew the Kid at all, he’d be running for his life right now.

“I’ve seen it a hundred times, Mr. Jones,” Welles went on, spreading his hands. “Killing me won’t free you from what’s inside you. You won’t get away from that, no matter who you shoot down.”

He paused; Curry didn’t shift, gun and gunhand rock steady.

“Really – I don’t deserve this – to die like this,” Welles said, peaceably, and gestured at his men. “They didn’t either, did they? Look at them—”

That was sufficient warning for Heyes and Curry; the Kid pretended to glance at the dead men and Welles’ hand dipped swiftly inside his waistcoat, coming out with a derringer.

He didn’t have a hope of being fast enough; surprise was the final expression on his face as Curry shot him. He flew backward, the derringer clattering to the stony ground at his feet.

Curry lowered the sixgun and took a few steps closer to look down at Welles’ sprawled body, no expression whatsoever on his face.

Heyes watched, until Curry was done with whatever silent curse or eulogy he’d needed.

Then the Kid stepped away. “Let’s go.”

“Should we bury them?” Heyes asked, prepared for any answer.

“Leave them for the buzzards,” Curry said, hate still edging his tone, and Heyes watched him walk past, down toward the horses. Then followed, not surprised that, even though it was over, he was still scared.

~*~*~

When they stopped for the night, Curry let himself – for the first time in hours – look at Heyes, stoking the fire, his face drawn, still anxious. Curry watched him, watched his dark eyes flickering everywhere, alert, then watched him stare into the fire for a moment, blankly, his thoughts briefly elsewhere. Watched him swallow, glance at the Kid, the tired, troubled face warming into a quick smile that made the Kid draw in what felt like his first clear breath in a week.

_Yes. I can see him like that_.

He’d known it for days, as an idea – but looking at Heyes, Heyes _here_ , touching close, having done all this to save him … Curry’s chest tightened with affection and painful awareness. It scared him – this was a devil, riding his shoulder, prodding at his mind, painting images that were so strange and arousing they infuriated him. Terrified him. What would Heyes think if he knew the way Curry was looking at him now, drinking him in with something far more dangerous than friendship? More dangerous even than hatred.

That lock of hair that fell across Heyes’ forehead, the lock Curry was always tempted to brush back, acquired in this moment the importance of a vow, a promise, an urge that Curry had to physically flee. He didn’t dare touch him now. It wouldn’t be an innocent touch, and Heyes would know it. Then it’d all come out, and … and Heyes would hate him. Nothing was worth that. If he lost Heyes … if he lost Heyes, he’d have nothing. Nothing in the world.

Pinned, unable to move closer or further away, the Kid felt a strange kind of panic in his stomach, forcing him to move or shout. With no safe words in him, he jumped to his feet, muttered, “I’ll be back,” and just … _moved_.

~*~*~

Startled, Heyes sat cross-legged in front of the fire, listening to the Kid stomp off toward the creek.

It was the first time they’d stopped moving since they escaped, and Heyes felt the danger of it, felt both of them thinking. It was typical of the Kid that his thoughts manifested physically. He’d never been one to channel upset into mental activity.

_No. He relies on you to work things out. How in hell are you going to work_ this _out, genius?_

After about a quarter hour, the Kid came back, each step slow, deliberate, his movements revealing the absorbing depth of his thoughts.

Heyes didn’t shift, but all his focus was on the sounds the Kid made as he returned to his perch on the fallen pine, on reading them, picking out the emotions from the actions. He poked at the fire, still not looking at his partner. Waiting for a sign. When he heard the distinctive hollow slither of metal against leather, his head jerked up.

“Kid.”

Curry didn’t move.

“What’re you doing?”

Curry looked up then, still cradling his sixgun in his hand, to meet Heyes’ worried stare.

“What are you doing with that?”

“Nothing.” The word came out a mere breath of air, no louder than the crickets.

Heyes watched him, the gun, the hand around it, the Kid’s face, the eyes, on him but not seeing him … breathing in his mood, tasting it. He got up, groping for something, some lifeline, without even fully grasping that the Kid was on that edge.

Gingerly, Heyes sat next to him, laid his hand over Curry’s. “Talk to me. I … I need to know you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Curry said – a blatant lie.

Heyes lifted the gun out of Curry’s lap. No one – _no one_ – touched Curry’s weapon. “You’re not. Come on. You’re safe. We’re safe.” He drew the sixgun out of reach. “Kid …”

Curry shook his head. “Don’t …”

But Heyes wasn’t having any of that. He was too scared about his own feelings to let any air get between them – it might be the end. He slid a hand around Curry’s nearest wrist.

“Kid, damn it. I mean ... did … did they hurt you? Can’t you tell me?”

Curry shook his head, slow, vehement, absolute.

“You can tell me anything, Kid,” Heyes put in, hearing himself like the snake in the garden, wheedling confession out of an innocent because he couldn’t face damnation alone. But that wasn’t at the core of this, and his heart reminded him of that. “Don’t … don’t go it alone. We’re partners. Let me help.”

“No!” Curry wrenched away from him. “Just drop it, Heyes. You don’t want to know. Trust me on that.”

Cold with fear, Heyes got to his feet. “Did he rape you?”

That got Curry’s full attention – like getting the full attention of a rattlesnake.

“Luis told me about Welles. About what he’s got going on up there.”

“I’m not sorry I killed him,” Curry snarled.

Surprised, Heyes said, “Neither am I. I’d’ve killed him if you hadn’t.”

That brought a ghost of a smile to Curry’s haunted face.

“I just want you to … to not shut me out. I … it hurts, Kid.” The crack in Curry’s façade made Heyes go on. “I want to help. Let me, will you?”

“You helped,” Curry said, turning away. “You came for me. What more could I ask for?”

Heyes smiled. “You kidding? You could ask for the moon. I’d at least give it a try.”

Curry froze, then turned back, his face open again, just for an instant. “Why?”

Heyes shrugged. “You’d get it for me, if I asked.” He chuckled, sat down again next to the Kid. “There wouldn’t be any ‘try’ about it. You’d do it.”

“If I could,” Curry said, and his expression tightened again. “I think that’s the problem. I … I’d do anything for you.”

Heyes watched him closely, said, “I know it. How come all of a sudden that feels like a bad thing?”

Curry looked at him, pleading, and Heyes recalled how hard it was, sometimes, for the Kid to find the words for what he felt. It was up to Heyes, at those times, to articulate what they were to each other. For the first time in a long time, he felt unequal to the task. Curry’s revolver weighted his hand, overly heavy, as if he were holding the Kid’s heart or soul. _Maybe we don’t know what we are to each other any more_.

“You’re not leavin’ me, Kid,” he said, holding up the Kid’s sixgun. “Not like this. Not in any way. Not ever. You got that?”

Curry shook his head. “You don’t know—”

“I know what counts,” Heyes cut in. “I know I trust you. Hundred percent. More than that. Nothing is more important than that.” He waved the sixgun. “If you ever even _think_ of lookin’ at this thing that way again, I’ll beat the livin’ daylights out of you. You hear me?”

Curry hung his head.

“Whatever it is, we’ll work it out,” Heyes slid the sixgun into Curry’s holster, met the startled blue eyes. “Together. Got it?”

Curry nodded, but the set of his jaw said it wasn’t over yet, by a long shot.

~*~*~

Heyes woke from a restless doze some time near midnight, or so he guessed. He lay still for a moment, then heard the Kid, beside him, shifting a little in his bedroll, his breathing fast, agitated. Heyes turned over and sat up; Curry was tossing a little, face creased in distress, breathing out soft sounds of … denial, of hurt … Heyes’ gut twisted and he crawled out of his bedroll, kneeling beside the Kid, remembering his dream. The Kid had looked like this, sounded like this, in the dream, and it tore at him, as if the Kid were dreaming about Heyes’ betrayal. He framed Curry’s face with his hands, desperate to stop it.

“Kid, Kid, don’t. Damn it. Come on. I’m sorry …” He bent his head, feeling his throat close with guilt, with the need to stop Curry’s pain, pain he felt like it was his own. “God. Please. I’m sorry …”

~*~*~

Curry stilled, snapped awake, hands rising to grasp Heyes’ shoulders. He blinked a few times, clearing sleep-bleared eyes to see Heyes staring down at him.

Rough-voiced, he said, “What … what’re you apologizin’ for?”

Heyes froze. Shook his head. “I … don’t know. Because I wasn’t there. You went through all that alone.” He sighed, gaze falling. “I wasn’t there. I should’ve been there.”

Curry shook him, gently, like a hug. “You did everything you could. Don’t take this on yourself. It’s not you. It’s not you at all. I’m just …” _Too close_.

He shook his head, dropped his hands, scooting back, away from his partner, sitting up. _Too close to you, and it’s … it’s all changed for me._

Heyes sat back on his heels. Took in a breath. Said, “It’s not me. That why you’re dodgin’ away from me like I’m a rabid dog?”

“No!”

~*~*~

And there it was, the anger, just below the surface. Nothing had been solved, nothing forgotten.

 “Kid, goddamnit, tell me. Tell me what’s eating you up, cuz I can’t stand this.”

Curry stared holes in the dirt, unmoving. “Welles. His … his people. He … the men there …”

“Kid, I know,” Heyes said soothingly. “Luis told me about it, remember? Welles, he … he had men like him around him.” _Men like him? Men like me._ But he couldn’t say that right now – he had to deal with the Kid’s devils before he could look at his own. “I know that part.”

“He … wanted me to … do that.” Kid swallowed, red-faced, stiff, mortified. Heyes had the urge to hug him, and almost laughed – that was the last thing he should do right now, and with the Kid in this mood, it probably would be. “He … he made … he had me watch. While two men …”

“He made you watch?” Heyes said, surprised and puzzled.

Curry gulped again, nodded.

“Kid … did he … did anyone … touch you?”

Heyes tried to sound calm, but both he and Curry heard the murder in his tone.

Curry looked at him, drawn out of his own misery, and Heyes prayed he’d understand that it wasn’t the idea, but the lack of consent, that made it ugly.

“No,” Curry said. “He didn’t … I think he would have. But it … he just hadn’t tried yet. And no one else woulda.”

Heyes breathed in. “Okay.” Thought fast. “I mean, I don’t care if men want to do that with other men ’stead of women. But if he tried to force you to do anything I’d have to go back there and kill him again.”

Curry stared at him. “You … don’t care if …”

“Kid, it’s a big ol’ world. Lots of different kinds of people in it. I mean, it wasn’t the first time you ever heard about it.”

Curry shook his head.

“So … you know, live and let live. Who cares what folks do, long as they’re doin’ it cuz they want to. But if he … if he tried to make you—” Heyes could hear his tone tightening, getting angry, and Curry obviously could too.

“No. He just … showed me. Like a peep show, only with men. I think … he was hopin’ that I’d … that I was like that.” He shook his head again.

“He shoulda taken your word for it,” Heyes said. “Man knows what he likes and what he doesn’t like, by the time he’s grown up.”

It was risky – Curry might’ve thought he was making light of it – but instead Curry huffed out a laugh.

“You’d’a thought so, wouldn’t you?”

Heyes took that in, knowing it was important, then set it aside for the more important issue of trying to ease the Kid’s torment.

“Oh, Kid. Is that what’s been botherin’ you?” Heyes again had to resist the instinct for a hug. Instead he bumped Curry’s shoulder with his. “And here you are a grown man and all.”

“It ain’t funny, Heyes,” Curry growled.

“Kid … it’s not about, you know, having sex. Making love to someone. Whether it’s men, women, both, neither, whatever. It’s about him takin’ you and makin’ you a prisoner. It’s about him wantin’ to force you. That’s a whole other thing. Don’t mix the two together just because he did.”

Curry shook his head, in that slow way that showed he was thinking about Heyes’ words, not denying them.

“I never … I never thought about that kinda thing.”

“No reason you would. Lots of things in this world that don’t have anything to do with our lives.” He thought about – and rejected, utterly – words that might tend to persuade the Kid that that kind of thing, as he put it, was okay. If the Kid were ever to arrive at comfort with the idea, it would have to be entirely on his own. Heyes was far too aware of his own sudden and selfish interest to do anything to sway him.

“I don’t wanna be thinkin’ about it now,” Curry stated, angry still, and Heyes considered the Kid’s tone. _He can’t stop thinking about it, and it makes him angry, but angry-offended, because it sickens him, or angry-scared, because it turns him on?_

Careful, he said, “Maybe … if you talk it out?”

Curry shook his head. Heyes sat back. Scared, definitely.

“Okay.” He got up, one hand on Curry’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “When you’re ready to, I’m here.”

Curry looked up at him, grateful, and Heyes felt a surge of desire to bend and kiss that almost-smiling mouth.

He squeezed again and stepped away. “Time to get moving anyway.”

~*~*~

Heyes was careful over the next few days to act no differently – to reassure the Kid that he felt no unease whatsoever around him. The strange thing was, whenever he’d brush the Kid’s shoulder, or squeeze the back of his neck, or touch his arm, or take care to sit next to him, rather than across from him, in a restaurant booth, it felt less like reassurance and a hell of a lot more like … flirting.

The Kid didn’t seem to notice. He remained all but silent, outwardly calm, but so quiet, so inwardly focused, that by the time they rode into Gowman three days later, minutes ahead of a chill autumn downpour, Heyes was a nervous wreck.

~*~*~

He woke in the wee hours to the soft thuds of the Kid pacing, barefoot, back and forth in front of the fire in their hotel room. As Heyes blinked the sleep out of his eyes the Kid stopped, clearly sensing he was awake, and turned to face his bed. He was wearing only sleep drawers, like Heyes, his skin gilded by the firelight.

“Heyes.”

The Kid’s tone – decisive, an answer rather than a question – made Heyes sit up.

“I gotta talk to you.”

Trying not to jump ahead, not to assume – not to get excited – Heyes pushed himself upright, hyperconscious of his own bare chest and even more conscious of the Kid’s – _way to not jump the gun, Hannibal_. Letting his instincts, as well as his feelings, lead, he patted the bed beside his hip. “So talk.”

The Kid twisted his hands around one another, hesitant, and that hesitation instantly defined the nature, if not the precise direction, of his concern.

Heyes patted the bed again, taking a deep breath and silently telling his dick to cool it.

“Come on. No point in you shoutin’, or me craning my neck.”

Curry’s hands clenched – followed by Heyes’ heart. _Oh, Kid, you’re so mixed up, so scared, and all I want to do is make it better. Let me, Kid. Let me. I don’t even know if I can, but let me at least try._ It didn’t matter if, ultimately, the Kid didn’t want to take this huge, insane step. In fact, that’d probably be for the best. All that mattered was that he stop hurting.

Finally, painfully, Curry said, “You might not want me … that close to you when I say what I gotta say.”

That, Heyes couldn’t stand. He flung the blankets back, rolled off his bed, and grabbed his partner by the wrist – a safe place – yanking him to the foot of the bed before resuming his own place against the headboard, legs now crossed. “Spill it. What’s kept you up the last six nights, tossing and turning?”

Curry stared at his own hands, still strangling one another. “I can’t get it outta my head.” He wouldn’t look at Heyes, but the tension between them was needle-sharp in the cool air. Heyes felt as if Curry were touching him, rubbing up against his skin. Which he was, Heyes thought, emotionally if not physically.

_Not yet._

Telling his baser self to shut up, Heyes gently prompted the Kid.

“Welles’ men?”

Curry shook his head. “No. Yeah. No. Damn it –” He bounced to his feet, pacing again. Heyes got up too, careful, not approaching, aware that the Kid was still working it through.

Heyes watched him pace, the lithe animal grace of him, more familiar than his own shadow, and marveled at how his feelings had shifted, twisting like a just-lynched man, into this incredible, dangerous shape.

Curry stopped, facing the fire. “Not them.”

Heyes inched closer.

“I keep seein’ me.” The words came out as if they hurt him. “Me an’ you.”

Heyes took in a slow breath, lightheaded. _Now. Tonight._ His blood sped, flamed, but his brain shouted at him: _Don’t scare him. Don’t hurt him._

“Me and you,” he echoed, still easing closer. “You mean … you been thinkin’ about me and you … makin’ love?”

Curry shook his head again, sharply – wildly – but his words clarified what he was denying. “I know it’s crazy. Wrong. And I don’t know why, but I can’t get it outta my head.” His head came up, a wild-eyed glance at Heyes. “I – I need you to help me figure it out.”

His hands clenched again and Heyes was at his side, one hand on his shoulder, a gentle stroke, calming a mustang about to bolt.

“Kid, it’s okay.”

Curry looked at him in disbelief and Heyes sat quickly on the settee in front of him. This was no time to confront – it was especially no time to reveal his own erection. The Kid needed reassurance, and Heyes sought for the right words. Honest words – with others, he didn’t worry about that, but the Kid relied on him to be honest with him, and Heyes would never fail that trust.

He held the Kid’s wide eyes, letting his hand stroke down the stiff, fire-warmed arm. He squeezed his wrist and let go, and the Kid spun away again, strode across the room, body tight, explosive. “I never thought like this before. Why now? Why can’t I get it outta my head?”

“Kid.” Heyes waited until Curry took in a deep breath and turned to look at him. “C’mere.”

Sullen – smolderingly sexy – Curry moved obediently back across the room.

_He always listens to me when it counts_ , Heyes thought, and breathed slowly through the rush of love and arousal.

Forcing calm, he said, “You got a window into somethin’ you never thought about before—”

“An’ I don’t _wanna_ think about it,” Curry snarled.

Heyes, abruptly, saw and chose a new tactic.

“How come?” he asked, very gently. “You don’t love me?”

That threw him, Heyes saw.

“Heyes … you know how I feel about you, damn it.”

Heyes let the tiniest of smiles touch his mouth. “So you do love me.”

Angry and uncomfortable for a different reason now, Curry snapped, “You _know_ I do.”

He let the smile grow. “Me too. So … so do you think I’m ugly?”

Curry sighed. “You know damn well you ain’t ugly, Heyes. What the—”

“Thanks. You clean up pretty good yourself.”

Curry said nothing, but he was still simmering, waiting impatiently. Waiting impatiently, Heyes thought, but waiting.

“Kid … don’t you see how … how if we love each other, and we trust each other, and … well, maybe it’s not so crazy and wrong as all that if you get that picture of us in your head after what you saw at Welles’ place. He was a bastard who needs to burn in hell, but _not_ because he thought it was okay for two men to make love to each other if they want to.”

“You … you tryin’ to say … it’ll just … go away eventually?”

That was not what Heyes was saying, and not what he wanted to hear, but that was unimportant. He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe talkin’ it out was all you needed. T’hear that it’s not that bad, not that strange. I mean, it’s strange, yeah. But it’s not _that_ strange.”

He turned what he hoped was a reassuring smile up at the Kid, wondering what those clear blue eyes were seeing as they rested so intently on his face.

The fire crackled, loud in the silence. Heyes could feel his heart beating just behind his adam’s apple, feel the fire’s heat on his skin, and the Kid’s heat, a different kind, flowing over him, into him.

Curry finally shook his head, a tiny, grave gesture. “You … you just don’t know …”

“So tell me.”

The Kid stared for another long moment, then, very slowly, bent down.

Heyes’ heart stopped; he waited, and when the Kid’s mouth covered his, his eyes fell shut and he breathed the Kid’s scent through his nose, feeling it, _feeling_ the exquisite, astonishing press of the Kid’s lips, soft against his.

Then it was gone. _Oh, god._ And Heyes breathed out, dizzy, eyes opening to see the Kid staring down at him, looking just as stunned as he felt, awaiting judgment. Awaiting doom, from the look of him.

Heyes swallowed because he needed to, then licked his lips, very much on purpose. “Well.” His voice came out low, rough, more revealing than his flippant words. “That wasn’t anything to write home about, but it’s a start.”

The Kid gulped. Blinked. “H-Heyes …”

Heyes got up – and the Kid drew back a little as if he still thought Heyes might slug him. Heyes moved close, sliding his hands around Curry’s wrists, just touching, feeling the Kid’s racing pulse under sensitive fingertips. Their cheeks brushed when Curry’s head came up, and Heyes sucked in a quick breath as his cock jumped.

They stood for a moment in silence, bodies almost touching, breathing in each other’s scent and nearness like brandy. Heyes was as certain the Kid had a hard-on as he was that _he_ was hard as a rock.

“It feels good bein’ close to you like this,” he said across the Kid’s ear, feeling him breathe in, feeling the faint tremors from deep in his body. He smelled clean and male, with a hint of spice – cinnamony, Heyes had often thought.

“You—you—” The Kid gulped audibly. “You never … said … you never did _anything_ like this …” He drew back, scared, hopeful, holding Heyes’ gaze, begging for him to make sense of this.

Heyes smiled a little. “I’ve never gone to Paris or been a millionaire, either, but that don’t mean I wouldn’t, if I got the chance.”

The Kid continued to stare at him in wonder.

Heyes left off joking. “Kid, you know you’re the most important person in the whole world to me.”

The Kid’s eyes shone, returning the compliment without words. A tiny smile touched his mouth – then faltered as the Kid whispered, “But … isn’t it … wrong?”

Heyes shrugged. “ ’cording to who?” He smiled, raising his own hands – shaking, after everything he’d done, _this_ made them shake! – to cup the Kid’s face and brush their mouths together, enjoying the faint rasp of the Kid’s light stubble, the gasp of indrawn air.

“Doesn’t feel wrong,” he said.

The Kid made a sound, low, and grabbed Heyes, covering his mouth, lips and tongue questing, needy and hot, riding the edge of roughness, igniting Heyes’ body and flaming his thoughts to ash in his head.

He didn’t even know they’d moved until he bounced onto the bed, the Kid over him, panting, holding him by the shoulders, their dicks hard and pulsing against each other – and the Kid was holding his eyes, tight as a noose.

“I was scared I wouldn’t see you again,” he whispered, and Heyes’ insides shriveled, responding to the fear even before his head figured out what Curry was saying, what he’d been saying the whole time, ever since he’d fallen in with Welles and his crew – that this wasn’t about sex.

“The whole time,” Curry went on, “I was plannin’ to get away, and I tried not to think about you, tried not to think ‘what if I don’t make it,’ but I knew there was a chance, there was so many of ’em, and all I could think of —”

“Kid, don’t.” Heyes pulled him close. “Don’t. I ain’t goin’ anywhere, and neither are you.”

Curry slid his arms around Heyes and hugged, hard enough to hurt, breathing into his neck while Heyes wondered _was this all he needed, a hug and some reassurance, and it got tangled up in that whole sex thing because of Welles?_ He huffed a soft laugh into the Kid’s curls, realizing, in spite of his aching dick, that he didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn if it was fucking, or a hug, or a good hot meal – if that’s what it took to make the Kid stop beating himself up, that’s what he’d do.

He was trying to sort out whether he was just disappointed, or maybe even a little relieved, when the Kid braced up on his hands again, gazing down at Heyes, half gold-lit by the fire, half shadowed.

Heyes swallowed at the look on the Kid’s face, and his instincts said, flat out, _it’s gonna happen._ The bare fact of it thrilled through his body and he shivered.

“If you’re doin’ this just to make me feel better …” Curry began, his tone warm, soft, but honest. Heyes had to smile. He lifted his hips, pressing their hard dicks together.

“Feel that?”

The Kid blushed and Heyes almost laughed.

“Even I’m not that good a liar.” Heyes held his eyes, knowing the Kid could read him. “And before you start thinkin’ _that_ way, you know either one of us could go get sex somewhere else, right now, if we wanted.”

Curry’s expression confessed that that explanation had crossed his mind.

“You can if you want to. I won’t be mad or anything.” Heyes added softly, “But I don’t want to.”

Curry bent his head, brushing his face against Heyes’ temple,  slow, luxuriating, for all the world like a big affectionate cat. But when he drew back, though he couldn’t have missed Heyes’ smile, he said, “It ain’t … normal.”

“A lot of what we do ain’t normal. For other folks, at least. But it’s worked for us.”

Curry stared at him, stared into him, and Heyes felt the weight of his trust and affection as much as the weight of his body. When Curry began to bend, slowly, Heyes smiled and let his eyes fall shut, waiting. For the gentle press of lips, the touch of a tongue that made his own lips open in invitation, the hot sexy curl of that tongue deep inside his mouth. He laid hold of the Kid’s shoulders, stroking along his arms, pulling him even closer, shivering when the Kid nuzzled his cheek and moved to suck at his throat.

The Kid whispered across his ear. “You scared?” Then drew back to look at him.

Heyes had to smile. “Yeah, a little.” He let his fingers slide through Curry’s thick tickling curls.

Sober, the Kid said, “You wanna stop?”

Heyes shook his head automatically. “No. You?”

“No.” His voice was low, deadly serious, and he kissed Heyes again, slow and intent – as if it would be the last time ever and he wanted to make the most of it. Heyes’ heart thrilled – no one who had ever kissed him before had meant it this much. He twined both hands around the Kid’s head and did his best to say the same thing back – until they broke apart for air and the Kid gasped, “ _Heyes_ …” and Heyes knew he’d gotten the message.

Suddenly he chuckled into Heyes’ neck. “I don’t even …” He pulled back, smiled at Heyes’ smile.

“I don’t even know how to do this,” he finished, but his fingers were tickling across Heyes' neck, down, over his collarbone, exploring the skin of his chest, his nipples, trailing through the dusting of hair there that guided him lower.

“You seem to be doin’ okay,” Heyes murmured, though he wanted to laugh – they both felt awkward and stupid, but they _both_ felt it, and neither one of them seemed to want to stop trying.

“I guess it’s no different from makin’ love to – to anyone else,” the Kid said, hesitant – clearly not sure that was right.

Heyes cocked his head. “I don’t know. I think you and me got a lot more goin’ on than me and any woman I’ve been with.”

Gravely, Curry took that in, nodded, and let his hand continue the slow caress over Heyes’ body. “That must be why it feels different.”

Heyes chuckled. “That’s one reason.” He laid his own hand over the Kid’s, a kind of embrace, tactile encouragement.

The Kid grinned and his hand glided down, fingers trailing across the fabric of Heyes’ sleep drawers, then curving warm and firm around his cock. Heyes gasped, startled by the feel of it, a strong male hand – _the Kid, the Kid’s perfect hands_ – on him, rubbing him through the thin cloth of the drawers.

“ _Oh_ …” He released that sharp and startled bit of air. “Yeah. That’s another. Oh …”

The Kid kept stroking, eager but unsure, Heyes could tell, but his touch felt like lightning; _if this is how it feels now, if he ever gets confident, it’ll be the death of me._

He thought about saying they should maybe get naked – then, with the instinct that had served him for years, knew that more words would only get in the way at this point, distancing them, making them awkward. He sat up, facing the Kid to dispel any fears he’d changed his mind. The Kid’s eyes were fixed on him as he bent to slide off the loose linen sleep drawers, and when he straightened up the Kid was flushed; he breathed out audibly, fear and wonder and hunger, and when Heyes put his fingers on the waist of the Kid’s drawers, he lifted his hips readily to let his partner tug them off.

Heyes took a long look at the Kid, breathing hard, his dick hard and curved upward against curly brown hair. He laid his hands on the Kid’s muscular thighs and watched his cock jump.

Forcing in a breath, he said softly, “Tell me if … if I’m doin’ something you don’t like.” He met the Kid’s stunned stare – he looked drunk. “I want to make you feel good. Will you let me?”

 “Heyes …” Curry swallowed; nervous, turned on, trusting, but needing something. “How … how come?”

Heyes held the Kid’s eyes, let his hands stroke up and down, tickling through the hair, shaping the hard curves of muscle. What was the Kid really asking – did he even know? How come they were doing this, how come they loved each other, how could this possibly be a good idea?

He thought of a hundred things he could say, all true, but all just noises, right now. “Because I know you.” He cupped the Kid’s hip, thumb passing over an old knife wound, caressing the rough, raised line of flesh, aware the Kid was staring at him mesmerized as he bent to taste the warm flesh of his stomach. “I know all your scars,” he murmured. “And you know mine.” He felt the skin quiver under his lips and tongue, then trailed his fingers through the brown curls between the Kid’s thighs and coiling them around his dick – it pulsed in his hand and the Kid made a strangled, hungry noise, body arcing upward, toward Heyes.

Heyes went on in the same low voice, “No woman’s ever gonna get that close.” _Not to me, at least,_ he thought, and realized he was more exposed here than he’d believed.

 “Heyes …” It was a plea; he raised his head, saw the naked emotion on the Kid’s face, saw his eyes begging for something he couldn’t articulate – begging Heyes not to bare him further with words, even as the Kid grabbed his arms and pulled them closer, calloused fingers tight on his arms.

“It’s okay, Kid,” he murmured. “Just let me …” He closed his hand around the Kid’s erection and his whole body jumped again. “Just let me.” Heyes stroked, thinking of what he’d like and looking at the Kid’s face, tight with pleasure and anticipation, jaw clenched around the small sounds that fought to escape. Heyes worked the Kid’s cock harder – it was bigger than his, he thought, and that made him smile, for some reason – and the Kid’s hands fell away from his biceps and dropped to the bed, fingers clutching, twisting the blanket – then his right hand sought and found Heyes’ left and seized it, fingers knotting and squeezing in spasms.

“ _He—Heyes_ …” His name came like breathing from the Kid’s lips as his hips began to writhe. “Oh … _oh_ …”  And he was coming, groaning and shuddering and spouting hot over Heyes’ hand and his own stomach, and Heyes felt like laughing in simple pleasure at the sight and feel and sound of it. He worked the Kid until he groaned and flopped back onto the bed, his dick softening in Heyes’ hand, then let him go and watched him lie there gasping for breath. He’d never let go of Heyes’ left hand – he still hadn’t, though the tight grip had gone limp.

Finally the Kid muttered, “Oh … _god_.”

Heyes chuckled.

Curry drew in a long, deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. Then he sat up, looked at Heyes, half smiling, rumpled, flushed, wildly sexy. “Can I …” He reached out a hand, hesitated, then laid it on Heyes’ thigh and squeezed. “I want to do that to you. I want to see you … like that.”

And Heyes felt his cock, already hard, surge. He grinned. “I won’t stop you.” It wouldn’t take much – seeing the Kid like that was so incredible it was a wonder he hadn’t already come.

Smiling, Curry scooted closer and wrapped one big hand around him and Heyes hissed, body jerking.

Instantly the hand eased up. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Don’t stop.” Heyes grabbed the Kid’s wrist, pulling, encouraging. “ _Damn_ , Kid, don’t stop.” He let his head flop back as Curry, reassured, squeezed and stroked, hard, harder than he would do himself, fantastic. The Kid slid his thumb over the glans, rough and quick, and Heyes shuddered. “Oh _god_ , yeah. Like that … oh, _Kid_ … yeah …” His whole body pulsed, desperate, seconds from release. “C’mere, c’mere—” The Kid bent over him and he pulled him down into a kiss, as urgent as his need to come. Curry leaned into the kiss, his tongue filling Heyes’ mouth, his body pressing Heyes down into the bed as his hand worked him ruthlessly. Abruptly Heyes stiffened, his startled cry absorbed into the Kid’s mouth as he came, _oh god,_ hard, hard, almost painful, his body shuddering against the Kid’s, and the Kid pulled him in tight and held him until he was drained and lax and panting for air.

“Oh … god …” He breathed, then laughed a little that he was echoing the Kid. He felt the Kid’s soft answering laugh against him and wrapped his arms around him, pulling them together from head to toe, inextricable.

~*~*~

Heyes woke to a silent, sunny morning and a penciled note on the Kid’s empty bed. Amongst half a dozen scribbled-out words he deciphered: _Got to think. I’ll be back_.

He stared at the note for a while, body and brain still waking up, swallowing against the sinking feeling in his stomach and hoping he wasn’t going to be sick.

He was well aware of what the Kid was feeling. There was no getting around it with words, either. He was either going to come back and deal with this change, or he was going to run away for good.

Heyes dressed, packed up his bags and checked out of the hotel. Lom was expecting them in Jackson in three days. Heyes knew the Kid hadn’t forgotten that appointment – they’d bought the train tickets yesterday on arriving in Gowman – but what he didn’t know was if he should wait here, or go on without his partner.

His instinct, of course, was to go after him. Something deeper than instinct held him back. If this had been any other situation, any other problem or misunderstanding, he’d go, fully prepared to talk the Kid into seeing his side of things, to use words and cunning to beat him into acquiescence. This was one time when his gut said that was the wrong thing to do. To go after the Kid, to coerce, to seduce … to do anything except let him make his own decision, free of pressure, was the wrong thing to do. Even though he longed to.

_Especially because of that,_ he reminded himself. _What you want ain’t the point any more. You gotta let him decide on his own what_ he _wants; otherwise it’ll never work. If you don’t trust him on this, he’ll know it, and he’ll never trust you again._

So, when the train pulled out at 11 a.m., Heyes was on it, his empty stomach gurgling at him, his full head spinning with fears and thoughts and plans and hopes.

~*~*~

Only when the door swung in with a loud creak did Heyes realize how long he’d sat in miserable loops of worried thought; it was dusk, and he hadn’t even noticed the train stopping.

The conductor came in with a lamplighter, said, “Tracy! This stop is Tracy!” as if there were a noisy crowd in this car, rather than one lone rider. He lit the lamps methodically and continued on through to the next car. Heyes watched him go, wondering if there was any point in getting off and finding something to eat when his stomach was this knotted. When he turned back to the front of the car, his heart leaped and his hunger was forgotten.

The Kid stood in the doorway, saddlebags over his shoulder, one hand holding his ticket, the other carrying his carpetbag, and scanned the compartment until he spotted Heyes – staring right at him, radiating delight.

The Kid obviously read his reaction, because he lowered his head, clearly fighting his own smile, as he worked his way down the aisle to sit across from Heyes. He kept his head bent, and Heyes continued to smile at the top of his head for a while before saying gently: “Hi.”

The Kid tilted his head up. “Hi.”

Heyes tried not to grin. “I’m glad you’re here. You okay?”

The Kid nodded. Swallowed. Glanced around the car to be sure he wouldn’t be overheard, then said to the floor, “You didn’t come after me.”

There was no accusation in his tone – more, Heyes thought, a kind of wonder.

“I didn’t think this was something I oughta be talkin’ you into,” Heyes replied. The Kid met his eyes for a second, and Heyes thought, exultant, _jackpot_.

The Kid settled into the seat, perceptibly less spooked, and shoved his hat back a little on his head. Another glance, front and back – they were just as alone in the car as before, but Heyes didn’t smile at his nervousness – then the Kid muttered:

“I … I’m scared of it.”

Heyes nodded. “I know.”

“Aren’t _you_?” the Kid growled, covering his vulnerability with impatience, anger. “You _can’t_ be as calm about this as you’re actin’.”

Heyes looked up at him. “I’m not calm about it. I wasn’t calm about it when … when we did it, and I wasn’t calm about you disappearing this morning.”

Curry looked away, shamefaced.

“But I can’t get a hold on it by jumping around and yelling or running off into the blue.” He fought down a smile when the dig turned the shame on Curry’s face to annoyance.

“I know why you took off. It’s too strange and you’re worried about what it means, what it means about you and about us and about our life – whether it’s all gonna be different now, or go sour, or what. I been thinkin’ about all that too.”

“ _And_?” the Kid demanded, and Heyes had to laugh, although he wasn’t feeling very amused.

“You’re expectin’ me to have the answers? To this?” He shook his head. “I got no answers. I don’t know what the right thing is to do. I know what I want. Sometimes I even know what _you_ want.” He shrugged, but the Kid didn’t contradict him. “But this time I got no idea.”

“Me neither,” the Kid said softly. “What do you want?”

“I want us to stick together,” Heyes said.

Curry scowled. “What way?”

“Whatever way we can.”

“Like we were before?”

“That’s fine with me,” Heyes said, and the Kid flat out stared. Not in disbelief, but in surprise, as if this were an angle that hadn’t even occurred to him.

Heyes sat forward, intent. “Don’t get me wrong. I liked it. More than liked it.” He let himself smile, just a little. “A lot more.”

Various emotions fought for expression on the Kid’s face, united only by the flush that touched his cheeks.

“But that … that’s not something I gotta have with you to get by, or to be happy. If it bothers you that much, I can say goodbye to that and be just fine. But I can’t be just fine if I gotta say goodbye to _you_. I don’t want to lose you. Not over this, not over anything.”

The Kid held his eyes, seeming to absorb his words, as if he’d needed to hear just that.

Heyes didn’t want to say it, but it had to be said. “But if you feel so bad about what we did that you don’t want to be around me any more—”

“ _No_.” Kid started up. “No. That ain’t – I don’t want that. But … shit.” He turned away, pacing. “Things are all changed now.”

“Not everything. We been in each other’s pockets for years. We’ve trusted each other and been best friends for years. That hasn’t changed.” Careful – keeping his voice calm and his eyes anywhere but on the Kid’s – he said, “I don’t love you less than before, Kid. I don’t love you more, either. I love you just the same as ever.”

Curry stared at his hands for a minute, and Heyes found his eyes resting in that same place; square, strong, adept … how much had he relied on those hands in the past – how often had his life, both their lives, been in those hands?

Curry sighed. “I don’t wanna be some dried-up old prude about this. I ain’t no virgin and neither are you, and I wanted it as much as you did. Maybe more.”

Heyes thought _I doubt it_ but said nothing.

“But now I don’t know how to get a handle on it … I …” He faced Heyes, intent, almost accusing. “You said you don’t feel different. But _I_ feel different. You said you’re willing to go back to how we were before, but … that’s not it. It’d still be there. We ain’t those guys any more. I’m not that Kid Curry any more. It wouldn’t fix it.”

“What needs fixin’, exactly?” Heyes asked mildly.

“Me!” the Kid blurted, then immediately shook his head and threw his hands into the air. “I don’t _know_. Whatever’s goin’ on in my head that says this is bad.”

“If you feel like it’s bad we don’t have to—”

“But I want to!” the Kid snapped. “Don’t you get it? It didn’t feel bad. It didn’t feel bad at all. It felt good. It felt …” He visibly swallowed the next words, but his feelings showed clearly on his face.

Heyes said, “You gotta stop hangin’ around evangelists, Kid. They’ve corrupted you.”

The tactic worked; the Kid almost smiled. “What’s one more sin on _my_ conscience?”

“I don’t know – this one seems to be bothering you more than all the others.”

“It ain’t the sin part, Heyes. It’s …” He looked straight at Heyes and Heyes felt a chill down his back. “It’s how I _feel_. I feel different.” Another sharp head-shake. “Not different. That ain’t it either. I feel … _more_. Like …”

Lightly – but not mocking – Heyes said, “I thought you already loved me.”

Serious, the Kid said, “I thought so too. It’s like …” He scowled, visibly working the image in his head into words. “It’s like I lived in this house and I knew it real well, every room, you know, and even though it wasn’t perfect – not by a long shot—”

“Thanks,” Heyes muttered.

“Even so, I was … happy in it. But I _knew_ it – all of it. And then all of a sudden–” He straightened up, spreading his arms in front of him – “there’s this whole new part of the house, a room I ain’t never seen before, and I’m … surprised by it. But it’s a part of the house I knew so well, the house I _lived_ in, the house I …”

“You can say the word,” Heyes said sourly. “It won’t kill ya.”

The Kid looked at him, unamused. “I don’t know if the house is you, or me, or, you know—” Accompanied by a vague encircling gesture—“us. I just feel … surprised. Like something I was sure of is different …”

“I think maybe that room’s been there the whole time,” Heyes said. “Maybe it was a room we didn’t look for, cuz we didn’t need it. But someone else opened the door and …”

“Now we’re stuck with it,” Curry said.

Trying not to sound hurt, Heyes said, “We still don’t _need_ that room. We don’t ever have to go in there again. The rest of the house is big enough for both of us.” A tiny selfish voice doubted this, but he silenced it.

But Curry shook his head. “It’s there. It’s real. It’d be a lie to pretend it’s not there. I …” Another, harder headshake. “I don’t think I _want_ to pretend it’s not there. I just need to find a way to sort of fit it into my head along with the rest of the house.” He gave Heyes a questioning, apologetic look. “Is that as stupid as it sounds?”

“It don’t sound stupid at all. I’ll tell you one thing for sure.” He leaned forward. “That house? It’s home. I don’t want to leave it, and I don’t want you to leave it. Do you think you can stay? Do you think you want to?”

“I don’t think I could leave that house if it was on fire,” the Kid said, and Heyes finally caught a glint of humor in his tone and face.

 “Well, no need to be unreasonable about it.” Heyes paused, then quickly got up and switched seats, planting himself next to the Kid. When Curry looked at him, puzzled, he asked delicately, “It wasn’t _so_ bad, was it?”

To his relief, the Kid rolled his eyes. “If it was bad, Heyes, we wouldn’t even be talkin’ about it, would we?”

Heyes grinned and sat back.

“How come you’re always so god … damned—” the Kid spaced the word out, a sure sign he was irritated –“ _sure_ about everything?”

Knowing full well the Kid knew better than that, Heyes said airily, “Good thing one of us is, or we’d never get anything done.”

The Kid graciously acknowledged this with a shrug, and Heyes slung an arm around his neck and hugged him.

“Only thing I’m sure about is you and me. And that’s enough. It’s more than enough.”

Curry glanced at him, fighting and losing to the grin that lit up his face. “Okay.”

 

The End

 


End file.
